


guides

by regionals



Category: Panic! at the Disco, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Emetophobia, M/M, Suicide, i actually started crying while writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 09:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7355347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regionals/pseuds/regionals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a lot of guides for a lot of things, you know? There's guides on how to teach yourself French in a month, there's guides on how to build a computer from scratch, and there's even guides on how to deliver a baby if necessary, but there aren't guides on how to deal with the death of your best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	guides

**Author's Note:**

> i dont even know what to say about this other than i am in a mood and i literally made myself cry from my own fic

**Songs to listen to while reading this, especially if you want to hate yourself.**

 

**Kodaline - High Hopes**

**Tyler Joseph - Taken by Sleep**

 

* * *

 

 

**Note: Despite being in second person, this isn't a reader insert.**

 

**START**

 

**.:josh:.**

 

There's a lot of guides to a lot of things, you know? There's guides on how to teach yourself French in a month, there's guides on how to build a computer from scratch, and there's even guides on how to deliver a baby if necessary, but there aren't guides on how to deal with the death of your best friend/unofficial boyfriend.

There aren't any guides on how to deal with the immediate sinking feeling deep in your gut, there aren't any guides on how to stop crying, there aren't any guides on how to break the habit of immediately reaching out for your phone to text him, because, well, who the hell else would you talk to about this? The only thing is, he's not there. He's gone.

You have to go to school the next day. You have to. You've already missed too many days sneaking out and ditching classes with him, and you've already missed too many days pretending to be sick just so the two of you could sneak off for an unofficial Taco Bell date in the middle of the afternoon.

There's an assembly. There's an assembly to announce his death. The principal—he looks almost bored when he reads out Tyler's name, and as he explains the situation. You're sitting in the front row of the bleachers with your friends, and none of you are sure how to react.

You're trying not to hyperventilate, trying not to just break down _crying,_ as horribly cliché as it sounds. Jenna's gripping your arm something fierce, and you just place your hand over hers. He was your best friend, he was _her_ best friend.

For once, Brendon doesn't have anything to say. He's just sitting there, shoulders tense, body kind of like a loaded spring getting ready to burst, staring into space. You can see the way he takes sharp breaths sometimes, and the way his bottom lip wobbles a little bit every so often.

He's a year ahead of all of you, and he thought of Tyler like a little brother. You can only imagine how he feels. You think of how you'd feel if Jordan were to—were to do what Tyler did, and it physically pains you. You already feel like a failure, because you couldn't help Tyler, you weren't able to pick up on the fucking _pain_ he was feeling, and you think that if you were in that situation with your own brother, then, yeah, you'd also feel like a fucking failure in that situation too.

That's something else that shocks you. Aside from the grief, the ridiculous feeling of grief you have, the feeling of being a failure is the second strongest thing in your head right now. How could you not pick up on it? You know—or knew Tyler like the back of your hand. You should've known he was about to do something, you should've just _known._

When your mother had knocked on your bedroom door, saying, “Josh?” in one of her _tones,_ you immediately just knew. You didn't know _what,_ but you knew something was wrong. Very wrong. “Tyler's mother is—she's on the phone. You should speak with her.”

You aren't fond of Kelly, and she's not fond of you, because you're the big bad punk kid who tainted her pure Christian son, but she knows the two of you were best friends, and she knows what the two of you meant to each other. The tone of her voice is—it's one of the nicer ones you've received from her.

All you can really register once she starts speaking are the words, 'suicide,' and 'gone,' before you drop the phone and just run as fast as you can to the nearest bathroom. Throwing up is your body's first response to all of this. You throw up everything in your stomach, acid included, but it doesn't stop there. You're hunched over the toilet bowl for what seems like forever, dry heaving, and crying.

You think it's Ashley who comes into the bathroom and wraps her arms around you. She doesn't say anything, but she has her forehead pressed against your shoulder, and you think she's crying too. You don't know wh—actually, you do. Tyler was at your house almost all of the time. He pretty much lived there. Your parents thought of him like a third son, and your siblings thought of him as just another brother. He was, or is, you're not sure—he's important to all of you.

Anyways, back to present time—school. Ashley—Frangipane, not your sister—is on the other side of Jenna, and she's actually crying. It's not ugly crying. She's just about silent, aside from the occasional shaky breath or the occasional little whimper she lets out in an attempt to stifle a sob.

Someone makes a remark at some point, and it takes the dead weight of Brendon, Jenna, _and_ Ashley to hold you back from beating the guy into a bloody pulp. “Josh— _Josh,_ it's not worth it. Just—leave him alone. He's just an asshole.” You're not even sure which one of them said it.

The four of you don't even make it through the rest of the school day before all of your parents are called to bring you guys home.

You end up at Brendon's house, mostly since you know his parents aren't going to hover like yours are. You've never really been close to Brendon, because, honestly, he was more Tyler's friend than he was yours, but you still end up with him wrapping his arms around you, while you cling to him for dear life as you just fucking let go. You're crying, and you're babbling out mostly nonsense.

It's been a day. It's been a fucking day. Your heart—it's broken. You heard somewhere that people can actually die of broken hearts, and honestly, you wouldn't be surprised if you did either. You can just _feel_ some sort of _weight_ in your heart, and some sort of weight in your throat.

You're also… scared. It's been a day. What's it going to be like in two days? A week? A month? A _year?_ How about the rest of your _life?_ Oh—god—you're feeling sick again. You manage to suppress your gag reflex, at least for that moment.

You think you're a little mad at him too. _Why_ didn't he come to you? Why didn't he say anything? Why didn't he tell his parents, your parents, his _friends?_ If he were alive, you'd be marching over to his fucking house to deck him square in the jaw for being such an _asshole._ Blaming him isn't going to get you anywhere, though. You already know that.

 

You end up falling asleep due to just being _exhausted._ Your first instinct is to whip your phone out to tell him 'good morning,' and you actually get 'good morn' typed out before you remember. The breath feels as if it's been sucked right out of your fucking lungs with a vacuum; you can't breathe, you can't breathe—oh god—this can't be real—it—it can't.

 

A week passes. You have to stop every ten feet or so in the hallways to get your shit together. Every single place you look you see yourself with Tyler, cracking a dumb joke, flirting with him, laughing, and exchanging fond looks with each other.

Your home isn't much different. You start sleeping on the couch after day two, because your room—it's tainted. There'd been countless evenings where you and Tyler would sit in there, getting stoned. The two of you tried not to get caught, but you knew full well that your parents knew. They didn't say anything, though.

There'd been too many evenings where he'd be curled up in your arms, crying, and telling you about all of his frustrations, or the shit going on with his family. Too many evenings of napping together, tangled in sheets and limbs. Too many evenings of watching movies on Netflix. Too many evenings of shy kisses, grinning like idiots. Too many evenings of watching the sunset together.

Too many late night talks about hopes and dreams, romantic fantasies. Too many late night talks about your demons, and too many late night talks about _his_ demons. Too many late night talks where the two of you have to keep quiet because laughter is honestly inevitable whenever you were with him.

Too many mornings of panicking, trying to help each other get ready so either of you can get to school on time. Too many mornings of waking up to his dumb, pretty, sleeping face. Too many mornings of waking up to him watching you with his pretty eyes. Too many mornings filled with soft giggles and light kisses being pressed all over each others faces.

 

The funeral. It's—you can't describe it. When you work up the nerve to go up to the casket, you almost faint. He's there, but he's not alive. You're not really sure what to do, but you figure placing a letter contained in an ornate envelope will have to do.

The letter isn't much. It's mostly just you saying how much you love him, and how much you miss him. You would've said loved, but, the truth is, you still love him. You've known him since you were eight. He's been your best friend for eight years. You've been _in_ love with him for five years.

 

You go home with Tyler's parents and siblings, since they're letting you pick a few things from his room to keep. His room—god—it smells like him. You don't even know how to describe what he smells like. It's just—he has a unique scent.

You ask Kelly if it's alright that you take all of his jackets, and all of his journals and notebooks used for writing. She grants you permission, and for the first time ever, she gives you a hug. She doesn't make any snide remarks, and she doesn't say anything rude as your fingers basically dig into the back of her shirt, or as you start crying for the millionth fucking time.

 

A month passes. You wear his jackets every day. You don't wash them, no matter how much you sweat in them, or no matter how dirty they get. They still smell like him, and you don't want to forget how he smells. You're not sure _why_ it's so important to you that you don't forget how he smells, but it is.

Lunches are miserable. The four of you kind of just sit there, for the most part, picking at your meals, and not really saying anything. You keep waiting to hear Tyler's running commentary, or to hear dumb jokes whispered into your ear. You keep waiting for Tyler to kick Brendon under the table for saying something embarrassing, and you keep waiting for Tyler to keep bugging Jenna, asking her if she has a girlfriend yet, or asking her if she's dating Ashley, or, hell, even _Debby._

School's horrible too. You dread going to World History. It was Tyler's favorite class, and he used to sit next to you in it. You have to hold your head in your hands every class period and will yourself not to start crying. You keep expecting him to be there, waiting for you, and you keep expecting his notebook to be slid towards you with stupid little notes written on it.

You decide to read one of his journals one night. You never touched them before this whole situation, since you knew he didn't want you too, but you just—you need something to remind you of him, and for some reason, reading this journal feels as if he's talking to you.

He talks about you a lot in his journal. There's a lot of doodles of you, and little stories about some of the dumb things the two of you would do together. There's letters, words he never said to you scrawled in his messy handwriting, and then there's his poetry.

He was so fucking talented. You loved the rare occasions when he'd share his poetry with you. He's just—he's _talented._ He somehow always managed to capture certain emotions, certain feelings, almost perfectly, and within such a minimal amount of words. The thing he's written—they're beautiful. They're just flat out beautiful.

By the time you're finished with it, you're wiping at your eyes. You place the journal in its designated spot on your bookshelf. You still have two more to read, then five notebooks to look at as well. You're going to pace yourself, though. You don't know how much your heart can take in one night, and you really don't want to find out.

 

A year passes. There isn't a day when you don't think about him. You're so fucking afraid that you're never going to be in love like that again. You're kind of dating Ashley at that point, too.

By kind of, you mean she ends up being the one you go to the most. You always kind of had a bit of a crush on her, and you knew she liked you too. She's safe. She makes you feel safe, and she doesn't get annoyed at you when you talk about Tyler, and she doesn't get annoyed at you when you start to break down crying.

She talks to you, too. She kind of makes you forget about Tyler. Well, not forget about him, but she's able to distract you, and she's gotten ridiculously good at talking you down from panic attacks. She's always there to say, “It's not your fault, Josh,” when your mind keeps trying to convince you of the opposite. You honestly think you're never going to stop feeling somehow responsible for his death.

You're surprised at this, too, but you manage not to make every conversation about Tyler. You never really did before, but he would always come up at some point. You feel bad for not talking about him, and you feel as if you're betraying him by trying to move on, but you need to. You need to move on. If you don't—well—you don't know what would happen, and you're definitely not going to be the one to find out.

You're aware that you're never going to be able to completely move on.

 

A few years pass, and you still think about him every day, but you're not in as much pain whenever you think of him, and you manage to go a few months without a panic attack at some point.

You're still with Ashley. You're happy with her, honestly. Like, really happy. She's one of the only people who's been able to get along with you just about perfectly, aside from a few arguments here and there. She's another person that you're able to sit around with, getting stoned while having deep conversations. She's another person that you're willing to sneak off with for secret little dates, another person that you would all but die for if the situation called for it.

 

Ashley kind of keeps you on your toes. As time goes on, she starts growing into herself more, and she's just—she's pretty much just fearless. (Her tolerance for your bullshit diminishes pretty quickly, and you—you're thankful for it.) She doesn't let you sit around moping, and she makes you get up most days, even if she knows all you're going to do is watch TV. “Look, even if you're just watching reruns of Malcolm in the Middle, it's better than laying in bed all day.”

She makes you go out with your friends, and her friends. Sometimes you want to protest, but you need the social interaction. You really do.

She also forces you to follow your dreams of being a drummer. She tells you that Tyler probably would've smacked you upside the head if you didn't, and honestly, you had to agree with her. He probably would have.

You'll admit it, but you're in love with her. Not in the same way you were with Tyler, because things with Tyler will always be unique, but you still get that same feeling of butterflies when she walks into a room, and the same feeling of not really knowing what to say because—god damn it—she's beautiful.

_I guess she was my guide. Huh._


End file.
